Hotel Brasil

by Frei Betto

  THE BOWL

  The waiter placed a small silver bowl beside Cândido. Wrapped in a napkin, it contained steaming water and had a slice of lemon stuck to the rim. He thought it strange that the other diners had not been afforded the same consideration. Perhaps it was an accompaniment to the dish he’d ordered.

  INTERLUDE

  “Odid, this guy is a pervert.”

  “Calm down, man! He’s an expert in his field.”

  “Any idea what this bowl is for?”

  “I think it contains a special tea for digesting whatever it was you ordered.”

  CONNECTIONS

  Lassale helped himself to another glass of vinho, preferring not to respond to the doutor’s enthusiasm. As a publisher, he was used to dealing with a wide range of authors with a wide range of beliefs. He tried to prevent any personal issues from arising by keeping his counsel at table.

  Cândido finally made up his mind: he squeezed the lemon into the water, picked the bowl up with both hands and drank. Before he could take a second sip, the scientist had hold of his arm.

  “That’s not for drinking,” he said, “it’s for washing the grease off your fingers.”

  Cândido thanked him, blushing with shame. Bramante went back to the laborious task of relighting his pipe. Lassale gave a deep sigh, trying to stop a yawn.

  “So, in summary, I suggest the two of you work together to explain the connections between sexuality and spirituality.”

  “Is senhor happy to collaborate?” Cândido said to the scientist as the waiter took their plates.

  “Por favor, no need to call me senhor. If it’s a serious project, count me in. I’ve had it up to here with scientific magazines that do their best to prevent mere mortals from accessing knowledge, as if knowledge of new discoveries were something to be kept in a bell jar and made available only to a select few. Long live the democracy of knowledge!” he proclaimed. “I know things the chefs in this restaurant don’t know, but then what do I know about how to cook bacalhau in leite de coco? There’s no doubt about it: my survival depends more on their work than theirs does on mine.”

  “Alas, I fear I’m not the right person for the job,” said Cândido, his spirit bruised by Bramante’s enthusiasm.

  Lassale tried to encourage him.

  “Ora, you know all about spiritual traditions! Plus you know how to write. And have no fear: you’ll have at your disposal a room equipped with the very latest in multimedia technology. This thing’s going to be a great success, I’m sure of it.”

  THE BROOM

  It was late by the time Cândido passed through Lapa on his way back to the hotel. A tram sparkled brightly on the Arcos, as if a jewellery box were crossing the aqueduct. Prostitutes and transvestites competed for business on the pavements, their make-up iridescent under the multicoloured neon lights of the nightclubs. They stared with lascivious eyes into the cars that cruised slowly by between Igreja do Carmo and Passeio Público.

  Vagrants and children fearlessly trawled through rubbish bags and dustbins, disturbing rats and cockroaches. Passers-by hurried stiffly along, as if trying to get across a war zone unharmed. Long queues formed on the pavement by the park, sleepy heads waiting for buses home.

  When he got to the hotel, Cândido bumped into Pacheco in the lobby. He noticed Dona Dinó’s broom leaning unattended against the wall by the front door. After dropping his briefcase and helmet off in his room, he headed back to the water cooler in the dining room. The broom had now moved and was resting by the door to the TV lounge. Cândido couldn’t believe Pacheco would dare violate one of the landlady’s cast-iron rules.

  When Cândido went back to his room, the broom was gone from outside the television lounge. He decided someone must be fooling around, trying to have some fun at his expense. Pacheco was slumped in an armchair in front of the TV, nibbling a sandwich and carefully following a debate about the economy. Osíris was asleep on the rug, curled up in a ball.

  As Cândido reached for the handle on the door to his room, he thought he saw the broom again out of the corner of his eye: it seemed to pass by the end of the half-lit corridor, walking on the tips of its piaçaba fibres. Cândido stopped and rubbed his eyes, assuming it to have been an optical illusion brought on by a cocktail of vinho, camarões and hot lemon water.

  3Ruses

  Delegado Olinto Del Bosco landed at Governador Valadares airport on a clear-skied, humid morning, no nearer to solving the case than he had been when the investigation began. They still hadn’t even identified the murder weapon. In fact, the only thing about the case that could be said with any certainty was that his head was now on the line. If he didn’t solve the mystery soon, he could forget his dreams of career promotion. The likelihood of him being transferred to a desk job at the Secretaria de Segurança Pública grew stronger by the day.

  SIDES OF THE COIN

  The information Del Bosco gathered from his enquiries in conjunction with the Vale do Rio Doce police force was not very encouraging. Marçal Joviano de Souza had been a quiet functionary at the local tax office in Governador Valadares, generally admired by colleagues and respected by the wholesalers and retailers whose accounts he handled. He had no children, thus passing on the legacy of human misery to no other creature. He liked to wear a light-brown three-piece linen suit most days, switching it for a white one on Sundays. He had been resigned and dedicated, in roughly equal measure, to his wife and her incurable melancholy.

  He spent his not inconsiderable spare time making trips to Teófilo Otoni, where he indulged his passion for collecting semi-precious stones. His wife stayed at home, sitting in the corner of the room, staring into space. Her reflection stared back from the glass of the display cabinets he kept his gemstones in: dishevelled hair, sweaty hands, trembling fingers, a lifeless face with a thread of drool spilling out of the corner of her mouth – a mouth that babbled disconnected words.

  Every couple of months, Marçal boarded a bus for Rio de Janeiro. He told friends he was visiting a half-brother on his father’s side, whose existence he’d only learned of shortly before retirement. In fact, he touted his gemstones around by day and frequented Copacabana nightclubs by night, blowing all the money he earned as a travelling salesman on strip shows.

  After his wife suffered a seizure and died, Marçal bid the little town of Governador Valadares farewell. The half-brother, Marçal alleged, was ill and needed looking after.

  In Teófilo Otoni, Del Bosco uncovered further facets to Seu Marçal’s personality. The detective was able to confirm that Marçal did indeed buy gemstones destined for resale, but he also discovered that the pedlar never stayed in any of the town’s hotels or pensions. Instead, Marçal spent his nights at the most celebrated brothel in the county, the Veio de Ouro, where he was entertained by female friends and confidantes.

  These friends and confidantes were left in a state of shock when Del Bosco told them of Marçal’s tragic demise. A spend-thrift in matters of the pocket and heart, the gentle old giant had always been generous with the girls, treating them like princesses, amusing them with improbable stories. Cornélia, the cafetina, burst into floods of tears and ordered that the girls wear black lingerie for seven days as a mark of respect. Marilúcia lit a candle to the image of São Jorge that hung above the mirror in the lounge. Francinete decreed a suspension, for a period of one month, of certain liberties granted to regular customers.

  Del Bosco conducted interviews with numerous gemstone prospectors and dealers. None of them had a bad word to say about Seu Marçal. There was nothing to suggest the man had any enemies.

  The mystery remained up in the air.

  4Reveries

  Cândido arrived at the publisher’s just as the new multimedia system was being installed. Lassale was trying to be pally with the joiner, who was busy with rulers, tape measures, chords and scissors, taking measurements for fittings. A woman with a dark tan and a gypsy ring in her left ear was leaning against the window, watching them work. She observ
ed them in an aloof but unpretentious fashion, someone who simply preferred to take a back seat in new situations. The room smelled of new.

  The woman placed her right knee on the floor and took a piece of equipment out of one of the boxes that lay scattered about the room. Her blouse hung loose at the neck. Cândido could distinctly see the firm shape of her breasts as she bent. Her skirt hitched up over her thigh and her pretty right knee popped into view. Cândido assumed she was a technician from the IT company. He went over to see if he could help.

  As he approached, he slipped on some polystyrene packaging. His body tipped backwards then swung forwards, until he lost his balance and landed right on top of the woman. She fell back onto her behind, Cândido’s knees splayed either side of her thighs. The hem of her skirt rode up to her waist, exposing pink underwear. Cândido steadied himself, putting all his weight on the knee nearest to the wall, and reached out a hand to help her up.

  INTERLUDE

  “She’s gorgeous!” said Odidnac with a cheeky smile. “Sweet like chocolate.”

  “Calm down,” said Cândido, blushing. “Pretend you didn’t see anything.”

  THE PRICE OF A PERSON

  “Santo Cristo!” yelled Lassale, running over to help. “You and Mônica can roll around in the hay all you want, but not in here! Do you know how much this thing costs? Seven thousand dollars!”

  The publisher picked up the piece of equipment the woman had been handling, as if lifting a baby from its cot, then laid it down carefully on the table.

  “My apologies,” Cândido said to her. “And nice to meet you. I’m Cândido Oliveira, the writer.”

  She rearranged the neck of her blouse with one hand and greeted him with the other, smiling all the while.

  “Despite the fall, the pleasure’s all mine. I’m Mônica Kundali, the anthropologist.” Then she looked in Lassale’s direction and added, “Senhor is the one who should be apologizing for suggesting we’re not worth seven thousand dollars between us!”

  The publisher smiled awkwardly and said:

  “Why don’t you both go and get a coffee?”

  Cândido took a proper look at Mônica once they were in the kitchen. She was a little shorter than him and had mauve-coloured lips, dark eyes and a face that suggested indigenous roots, an impression accentuated by straight black hair that ran down past her shoulders.

  BURNING SPARK

  The collision left its mark on Cândido. His soul had been pricked, painlessly and bloodlessly, as if a stiletto had pierced his heart. He was surprised to discover that he now carried another person within him.

  Back in his room at the hotel, propped up against his pillows on the bed, his eyes scanned Moderandi’s Tratado Geral da Sexualidade Humana while his mind distractedly evoked the dark-haired girl. He was troubled by a nagging thought: how could such an everyday incident have got so indelibly under his skin?

  He’d not been so smitten since Cibele, a girl he’d known long before entering the monastery. A schoolmate with bright blue eyes, Cibele had been the focus of his youthful passions. For the first time he experienced the wonder of one woman eclipsing all others. Everything that emanated from her seemed extraordinary to him: her shy smile, the way she ran her hand through her hair, the tiny steps of her walk, her habit of holding her school books up to her rising breasts. The road she lived on acquired a special perfume that only he breathed. He would walk down it two or three times a day, reading hidden signals in the laundry that hung outside her house.

  Cibele acquired untold dimensions in his eyes. She was the most beautiful, most sweet, most attractive young woman in all the world. And he was the happiest young man.

  Nevertheless, the relationship failed to survive the onset of adulthood. Once the initial rapture had died down and the light of their passion dimmed, the dull realities of daily life brought incompatibilities into view. Arguments became more common than displays of affection and their temperaments revealed themselves to be opposite. She wanted to go out when he wanted to stay in; she would insist they went to a club, and he’d be denied the pleasure of their spending time alone together listening to music; he would sit in the parlour, humouring her parents or leafing through magazines, while she spent hours in the bedroom on the phone to her friends. As with so many adolescent crushes, their love didn’t stand the test of time.

  Then there was ngela, from ten o’clock Sunday Mass. She had peppermint eyes and a habit of nibbling the little finger on her right hand. She was very pretty: what a joy to praise the Creator for such a wonderful creature! Cândido would look down on her from the back row of the choir, lost in reverie as O Gordo bawled out his sermon.

  “Concupiscence is the mother of all temptation. We think something looks nice, but that look turns to desire, desire turns to greed and soon we’re gripped by lustful thoughts and acts. Look at your neighbour’s wife with the eyes, never with the heart. He who burns with desire in this world will burn in hell in the next.”

  The abbot’s booming homilies failed to penetrate his disciple’s thoughts. Cândido was too wrapped up in his contemplation of beauty, his almost ecstatic appreciation of the sublime being that lay before him.

  While the preacher dealt with darkness, Cândido felt himself drawn to the luminous glow that emanated from ngela’s mane of golden hair.

  And anyway, O Gordo was always speaking of heaven, but why not listen to the heart here on earth?

  Once Mass was over, everything evaporated like a mirage. Cândido went back to the dark and foreboding cloisters. He sought respite and refuge in mythological texts that instructed him on how to conquer his feelings, how to control his mind and the flow of his breathing, relax the body and live a life of asceticism. Feeling like Sisyphus, he’d start to climb Jacob’s ladder once more, with a determination as great as his sense of guilt.

  But soon, prompted by the memory of a finger being bitten, lustful urges blew the gates of his mind open and the horse of his body bolted. He headed for the toilets, where the voracity with which he feasted on Paradise’s apple yet again prevented him from entering the Garden of Eden.

  Eventually, convinced that God had chosen not to afford him a monastic vocation, he decided to abandon the frock.

  BRIDE’S VEIL

  Cândido started to walk past ngela’s house two or three times a day. After seven days, the girl appeared at the door. Cândido stood paralysed on the other side of the road. She was like a vision, an angel from Lucifer’s entourage. He was blinded by her splendour. His insides became impregnated with every detail of her face: lips, tongue, nose, eyes and hair. He knew her body’s bulges and swells by heart. He divined her perfume, her heat and vibrations.

  When he crossed the road, it was as if he were crossing a desert after sighting an oasis.

  “So nice to see senhorita,” he stuttered, his heart leaping.

  ngela smiled.

  “Have you left the monastery?”

  Her delicate voice betrayed a mixture of curiosity and fear. She was also attracted to him, but she didn’t want to be accused of stealing away one of God’s ministers.

  “I didn’t have the calling,” Cândido said, trying to put her at ease. “I didn’t leave the cloisters because of you. It was because of me. God didn’t create me to live alone.”

  Cândido went back the following day, and the day after that, and every day for the rest of the week. The girl’s parents watched on approvingly, judging him to be a suitor of pedigree, and the relationship advanced from the gatepost to the veranda. Cândido’s hands also advanced, onto the girl’s curves, as their lips met and their mouths fed words to one another.

  “I can’t stand it any more,” said Cândido one night, as his seed oozed out into ngela’s hand.

  “But what can we do?” she said. “There’s nowhere in town we can go to be alone.”

  They planned an outing for the Sunday morning. Cândido called for her before sunrise and they set off on bicycles to the waterfall.

  They h
ad to abandon their bikes as the road thinned first into a track, then into an overgrown path. Cândido burrowed through the thicket – rucksack on back, ngela on his trail – and headed for the sound of the water.

  The Véu da Noiva soon came into sight, a curtain of water falling like a bride’s veil into a bubbling bath before weaving its way over smooth, shiny black pebbles as the river retook its course.

  Cândido spread a red towel out over the moist grass. ngela hugged him from behind, kissing the back of his neck and unbuttoning his shirt. He turned, moving his lips to hers. He slipped his hands inside her blouse and fondled her breasts. Their bodies became voracious, their clothes flew in the air, landing on top of bushes; their minds sizzled with excitement and time stood still, the hands of the clock pointing to infinity.

  Their cries of pleasure were drowned out by the thunder of the falling water and the fizz of the spray on the pebbles.

  WHIMS

  “No argument is without flaw, no flame is everlasting,” Cândido muttered to himself when ngela said she wouldn’t give herself to him again until their marriage date was set. “I’ve told you a thousand times before,” he said, “we can’t get married now.”

  “But why not?”

  “Because I’m hardly in a position to realize my dreams on my miserly teacher’s salary.”

  “You’ll be head of the school soon, meu amor. Then you’ll be able to buy a fazenda and earn lots of money raising cattle,” said ngela.

  Cândido said nothing. There was an abyss between his plans and hers. He didn’t aspire to wealth or power. He’d be happy as long as he had his daily bread and a few books to read, and could look at himself in the mirror and feel no shame.

  Despite their disagreements, they got engaged and exchanged rings, conscious that married life would be a matter of taking the rough with the smooth.

  They never got as far as the altar. The relationship lasted until the night they went to the town club and ngela’s eyes began to dance to the tune of a young and prosperous fazendeiro.